Page 86 of Full Tilt
Home. In a tattoo shop. In a rugby pitch. In him.
The speeches are over. The desserts come and quickly vanish like they were never real. And now… now comes the dancing.
Which, apparently, Cam has been waiting for.
The music kicks in—something upbeat and retro, maybe Earth, Wind & Fire or something equally disco—and I make the mistake of thinking he’ll stay seated for at least one song.
He does not.
“Let’s go,” he says, already tugging at my hand.
I blink. “Wait, what?”
“Dance floor. Come on.”
“But I’ve only had four glasses of?—”
“Exactly,” he says, hauling me up with a shit-eating grin. “Perfect amount of coordination with none of the self-consciousness.”
And he’s right. About all of it.
The second we’re on the floor, Cam becomes a menace in human form. A tall, overconfident, rugby-playing menace with rhythm I wasn’t prepared for. He’s not even trying to be sexy. He’s just… having fun. Fully committed to every hip thrust and overexaggerated arm move. The man looks like a cross between a backup dancer for a boyband reunion tour and a dad who peaked in 2003—and somehow it works.
I’m doubled over laughing before the chorus even hits. “Cam, what the hell are you doing?”
He wiggles his eyebrows. “Bringing sexy back.”
“Pretty sure that’s illegal in at least four counties.”
“You love it,” he says.
And he’s right again. But it’s not just Cam tearing it up. His family? Oh, they’re bringing it.
There’s an aunt—Nessa, I think—who’s doing a dead-serious cha-cha with a man I’m fairly sure isn’t her husband. And on the far side of the floor, Cam’s cousin Gracie is doing the worm in a dress that absolutely wasn’t designed for floor-based activity. She pulls it off anyway. To cheers. And possibly a pulled hamstring.
A cluster of small children are rotating in a sugar-fuelled circle of doom nearby, led by an enthusiastic uncle who’s somehow managed to affix glowsticks to his ears.
I lose Cam for half a second when he gets swept into a line dance next to an older lady who insists he’s “too pretty to be single” and that she’s got a granddaughter “built like a pin-up and a certified beautician.”
Cam just laughs and points at me across the room. “Taken.”
The lady gasps. “Well, damn. Lucky him.”
I waggle my fingers.
“Flirt,” Cam mouths.
“You love it,” I mouth back.
We dance through three more songs, one dangerously close to a mosh pit, before I finally grab him by the collar and drag him off the floor.
“Hydration,” I say.
Cam’s sweaty, pink-cheeked, breathless, and still smirking. “You just want to make out behind the marquee.”
I sip my drink. “No comment.”
“You totally do.”
